


What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?

by Dr_Supernova_Dragon_Cat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Office Romance, Romance, SanSan Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:07:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28295763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Supernova_Dragon_Cat/pseuds/Dr_Supernova_Dragon_Cat
Summary: What does Sandor Clegane know about Sansa Stark?For starters, she thinks mayonnaise is an abomination, unabashedly adores fairytales, is crazy about lemon cakes, scary movies give her nightmares, coffee in the afternoon keeps her up all night, and, during the blazing heat of summer, she melts into an adorable, whiny, irresistible mess.But what does he really, truly know about her?He knows that he’s spent the entire year falling for her and, at the office holiday party, he has just one burning question for the girl who showed him to his desk on his first day, became his best friend and confidant, and who has single-handedly turned his world upside down.Modern AU. Office romance. Mutual pining. Friends to Lovers. Fluffier than the marshmallows Sansa sneaks into Sandor's coffee.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 62
Kudos: 211





	What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gameofoneshots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gameofoneshots/gifts).



> Seasons Greetings! 
> 
> I’m moonlighting as a fill-in Secret Santa for agameofoneshots’s excellent prompt “I have always known you” for the SanSan Secret Santa 2020. This was so much fun to write and thanks to the SanSan Secret Santa organizer who put the exchange together! I hope you enjoy, agameofoneshots! 
> 
> Happy Holidays!

Sandor eyed the sandwich platter in the conference room and checked the clock. Noon. It’d been in there for two hours. The company party started at three.

Salmonella sandwiches. Earlier when Sansa popped into his office, that’s what she called them on a whisper that didn’t quite contain her laughter. Sandor had craned his neck to look. Sure enough, the whole damn platter sat there on the red plastic tablecloth. Merry Christmas, everyone. Here’s your food poisoning.

“Who do you think will go for it first?” she’d asked and sat at the edge of his desk in her pencil skirt and red sweater with white reindeer stitched across the front. He’d tried not to stare at her legs, so he stared at the ceiling instead.

“Phil,” he’d said and relished the devious smile on her lips. “I saw that guy shotgun three cans of Pringles from the vending machine and a carton of milk once. Stomach of steel.”

She’d laughed at that. Sandor didn’t peg himself as a humorous guy. He was mostly sarcastic and dumb asses just assumed it was humor, so they laughed, not knowing the joke was on them. He liked making Sansa laugh, though. Her eyes would glisten, and her cheeks turned rosy.

What he didn’t like was putting off lunch until the holiday party started and neither did Sansa, so he ordered sandwiches from their favorite shop down the street.

In January, he started at this branch after fighting the transfer tooth and nail. It was too cold here, he’d said. Case in point, there was snow on the ground when he arrived from California the same week Chicago got hit with “The Storm”—the seasonal beast that covered the city in more than a foot of snow and everyone just soldiered on somehow.

Sandor had been wholly unprepared; so unprepared that he bought lunch at the cafeteria each day his first week until Sansa Stark, the gorgeous girl at reception who’d shown him to his desk on his first day, sent an instant message:

_“Hi! Sorry if this is weird, but I noticed you’ve been getting the club sandwich from the building’s cafeteria. I know a sandwich place down the street that’s got amazing subs if you’re interested. If not, no worries!”_

Sandor had read it twice, long enough that the _“Sansa Stark is typing…”_ message appeared at the bottom of the chat screen and then disappeared. Appear. Disappear. Appear. Disappear. On it went until it stopped altogether. He’d strolled to reception then, and Sansa had stared up at him with big blue eyes and a smile that said most people didn’t get out of their seat to talk to her.

He’d asked if she could tell him where the sandwich place was. He thought she’d just point it out on a map and be done with it. Instead, she’d grabbed her coat, though he wasn’t hungry in that moment. It didn’t matter. He grabbed his coat too and ate lunch early that day. The subs were good, and, in January, Sandor learned that Sansa didn’t like mayonnaise.

“I don’t trust something that’s made of eggs and doesn’t need refrigeration before opening,” she’d told him. He too didn’t like mayo and not because of trust issues.

She’d said it so seriously, though, and had an innocent charm; that Midwest wholesomeness he’d been hearing about, but it didn’t irk him like he thought it might.

Someone wandered into the conference room now and set out a plate of lemon cakes wrapped in a metric ton of plastic to ward off the pre-party vultures. 

Sandor glanced at reception. His office was nicely placed. From his desk, he had an unobstructed view of where Sansa sat; close enough that they could eye each other but would have to get out of their seat if they wanted to talk.

Weren’t there studies about the dangers of office work—sitting was the new smoking? Honestly, it was just good for his health to get his ass out of his seat and take a little stroll to her desk. And so, he did. Regularly. In the name of health.

Sansa cradled the phone between her chin and shoulder and did that quacking motion with her free hand that meant the other person on the line wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Sandor pointed to the lemon cakes in the conference room. They were those soft cakes with a thick layer of sugary lemon icing. Sansa’s lips curled in a smile. The girl lived for lemon cakes.

In February, she had her birthday, and the office celebrated with her favorite cake. By then, Sandor considered her one of the more pleasant people in the office. It’s not that the others weren’t nice. They just didn’t light up at his presence like she did.

He’d stroll through the door and she’d wave so sweetly to him. If it was a Monday, she’d come over and give him a rundown of her weekend. If it was a Friday, he’d wander up to her desk when he hit a wall at four and she’d boost his spirits.

Sandor also found out in February that she had a boyfriend who had dinner plans for her birthday. He wasn’t so much disappointed; just surprised. Sansa had never mentioned a boyfriend and, even as she did, it was on a hush and with a sad smile that meant she didn’t really want to talk about it, so he wished her a happy birthday and thought it was sad, indeed. A pretty girl like her, so kind and genuine, should never look so torn up over her own birthday dinner.

“Sandor Clegane.” His name came questioning from a voice manifesting at his office door.

The sandwich delivery man scanned a receipt and handed off a paper bag. “Turkey club, no mayo. Turkey club, yes mayo.”

_Shit._

“They should both be no mayo.” Sandor stared at the guy who shrugged with overwhelming apathy at the state of Sandor’s sandwich. This guy was a mayo person. He just had the look.

“I mean, I can go back and remake it…”

The “ _but”_ hung in the air, an unspoken clause. Sandor knew what it said—but it’ll be twenty minutes; but the new sandwich might have some sort of body fluid in it; but it’ll be another $10 and, oh, he’d have to tip again.

It was the holidays, so Sandor dug into his back pocket, produced twenty-five dollars, and told the guy to “keep the change, ya filthy animal.” The kid blinked at him, all the lights on but no one home, and apparently he didn’t understand the movie reference. 

“Thanks. Merry Christmas.”

The kid hurried from the office, perhaps afraid Sandor might change his mind or because he took on “filthy animal” as retaliation for the mayo sandwich. 

Sansa’s heels hit the floor in a giddy stride. Sandor could divine her moods by the rhythm and weight of her footfalls alone. Happy. She was happy. Either that, or hungry, but she merrily traversed the distance to his office with a beaming smile. 

“The sandwiches are here!” she trilled and held out a ten-dollar bill. Sandor shook his head. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Wait, did you already pay?”

“Yeah, I’m starving,” he said and reached into the bag for the non-mayo sandwich that he handed off to Sansa. “I don’t wanna here about it.”

Simple things. Sansa liked simple things, and so she clutched that sandwich to her chest and stared at him when he stood as if he’d just handed her something rare and thoughtful. This boded well for his Christmas gift to her that was, in fact, rare and thoughtful.

They’d struck up a tradition—lunch in the glass-encased stairwell that faced the lake. It wasn’t really about the view—the office overlooked the lake, too—but rather the privacy.

About this time of day, the sun streamed through the stairwell windows and filled it with comforting warmth. Sometimes they’d come here to get away. From what, he didn’t really know. The office rumor mill, perhaps. People suspected they were a couple (or at least well on their way to being one) and sneaking off during lunch probably only greased the skids of office chatter. It was innocent, really, but neither of them set the record straight. They let the mystery remain.

Another benefit of their well-timed lunches, Sandor liked the way the sun streams lit up Sansa’s hair in peaches and gold. The long, auburn waves framed her porcelain face and all its delicate and feminine features—full lips; a slightly upturned nose; expressive blue eyes.

Bone-crushingly beautiful, he’d steal glances at her as she gazed out at Lake Michigan. A handful of times, he caught her doing the same when he was lost in some thought and enjoying her presence, only to find her gaze soft against his skin and something unspoken on her parted lips. She guarded her secrets with a smile. He meant to ask her what they were, but never got the chance.

Sandor unwrapped his sandwich and Sansa gasped at its shame. It bore the opaque scourge of humanity, the defilement of salads everywhere—tuna, chicken, egg—all subjected to its horror and spread between innocent slices of bread.

“I thought you didn’t like mayonnaise!” Her voice echoed in the stairwell and she looked at him with the bewilderment befit this act of sandwich sedition.

He didn’t like mayonnaise but telling her the sandwich shop fucked up and that he took one for the team would almost assuredly result in Sansa demanding that she eat the sandwich of shame and let him have the one untouched by Satan’s condiment.

“I figured I’d try something new.” Sandor shrugged with a smirk and bit into the sandwich. The mayo squirted from the soggy bread and into his mouth. Holy fuck, this was awful.

“Thank you for lunch,” Sansa said and gently nudged him with her elbow. “This is the best Christmas gift.”

Her smile alone was worth it. Sandor suffered through another bite of the abomination that he swallowed almost whole and hoped like hell Sansa knew the Heimlich maneuver in case this went south.

“Well, I got you something else,” Sandor said.

He willed his face towards casual indifference, the kind of nonchalance well-matched to some mediocre gift like socks or a pencil cup. He bit into his sandwich again to hide the smile forming on his lips.

Sansa swiveled towards him. Her knees pressed against the outside of his thigh and she let them linger. “What? No, you didn’t!”

“I did. The sandwich may have stolen its thunder, so don’t get too excited.”

“Well, I got you something too,” she announced, and whereas he hid his exuberance, she wore hers proudly and with the same impatience she’d shown around his birthday gift.

She’d turned up to the office that day with an exquisitely wrapped box. Sandor had to open it right away because she wouldn’t stop looking at him with big blue eyes and claimed she couldn’t work until he opened it. Whiskey from a distillery in California. His favorite. She’d remembered.

“Seriously?” Sandor lifted a brow at her.

He wasn’t all that surprised, but also didn’t expect a gift from her. They hadn’t talked about a gift exchange. In fact, the office didn’t even host one; something to do with the year Gary from accounting gave ‘Gary-Pons,’ his own personal coupons for shoulder rubs, long hugs, and rides home. The mighty hand of corporate HR swiftly put the kibosh on that.

Sansa nodded. “Yeah. It’s better than your sandwich, so I’m happy you set the bar low with _that_.” She tipped her head to his lunch and warily eyed the mayonnaise.

Sandor dwelled on the notion that left him reticent as the gesture tumbled through his mind. Sansa quietly nibbled on her sandwich and watched the icy blue waters of the lake lap against the shore. A gray winter sky blotted out the sun. It didn’t matter. Sansa stunned in any light and he stared at her now until she noticed, and the corner of her mouth lifted, but she said nothing. Sansa appreciated silence and let it grow sometimes. There was comfort in existing with her in these muted spaces, but they’d grown heavy with things he’d left unspoken and sensed she did too.

“Burning question,” Sandor said. “And we both have to answer on the count of three.”

“Okay, I’m ready.” Sansa set her sandwich aside and wiped her mouth with a napkin.

Sandor matched her eyes as she waited patiently for the question. “Who’s getting blackout drunk at this party? One, two, three.”

“Lonny.”

Their voices echoed in stereo through the stairwell. She gripped his forearm and bright laughter burst from her lips. As the sound faded, though, so too did her smile.

“His wife left him,” Sansa murmured. “I feel so bad.”

With a frown, she picked off breadcrumbs from her black skirt. Sandor admired her empathy, the way she bled for others. He’d spent most of his life mistakenly thinking it was a sign of weakness, mostly because he’d never seen it displayed with Sansa’s raw sincerity. She proved him wrong and showed him what it meant to be strong in ways he hadn’t considered.

In March, she broke up with her boyfriend. He’d found her in this stairwell, dabbing at tears with a napkin from the break room. She stood there staring at him like a deer in headlights with enormous tears pooling in her eyes. He didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell, but he gave her a handkerchief, collected her bags from her desk so no one else saw her crying, and walked her to her car.

“I feel like he never knew or really cared who I am,” Sansa had told Sandor, just as she was about to climb into her car. “And that really hurts.”

He had watched her drive off then, thunderstruck that a coworker he’d only known for two months told him that so plainly and honestly. He’d known people all his life who probably wouldn’t have been able to manage the same with as much somber placidity and grace in the face of heartache as she had.

Over time, they recorded over the bad memories of the back stairwell. They ate lunch here, watched thunderstorms roll in across the lake, held secret conversations, the ones they didn’t want others to hear.

Sansa turned to him now with a conspiratorial smile. He knew what it meant.

“I have gossip,” she announced, delighted to share. “I’m only telling you.”

That was her favorite, or so she said. She liked to tell him things. _Only_ him. He did the same.

“I hope so,” Sandor chuckled and sipped from the iced tea she got him from the vending machine. “Spill it.”

“Lonny had me send his estranged wife flowers. Carnations.”

She stared at him as if he should see the scandal in that and laughed at how slow on the uptake he was.

“Sandor, carnations,” she repeated as if they were the floral equivalent of mayo.

He got it now but kept up the feigned confusion because her eyes steadied on his face as she waited for understanding to bloom. Her gaze drifted to his lips. He always wondered why she did that. He wasn’t stupid, nor was he presumptuous, so he let it go.

“What’s wrong with carnations?”

“Those are after-thought flowers! You can get them at a gas station.”

Sandor set his sandwich aside with very serious care, pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled a somber sigh.

“Ah shit,” he mumbled and turned to her with grim dismay. “Well, it was gonna be a surprise, but that’s actually what I got you for Christmas. And believe it or not, they’re from a gas station too.”

For a moment, she bought it, but a slow smile crept across her lips and the mirth was alive in her eyes too. She understood his humor quicker than most and these days saw through the deadpan with well-honed precision.

“If they’re from you, that’s different,” she declared, a line in the sand, and he was just happy to be on the better side.

Sandor huffed a quiet laugh. “Oh, I see. Good to know.”

In April, they’d passed a pop-up flower market on the way back from the sandwich shop. After an unseasonably cold March, it was the first day the temperature rose enough that they only needed a light jacket. With a verdant spring breeze lifting her hair, Sansa had stopped at the flower stand with a luminous smile and ran her fingertips along the powder pink petals of a peony bouquet.

“These are my favorite,” she’d revealed, so wholly enchanted by the sun warm against her face after a long winter. She’d come alive again with the simple moment and Sandor had slipped out of the office later that day with high hopes of a grand gesture, but the flower stand had already closed up. It never did come back.

They finished their lunch just about the time when people would come looking for them or whispers would loft across the office—Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark were having lunch together. It stopped being juicy months ago and was folded into the milieu of office life. If they were gone too long, it rose to prominence again.

The clock wound down through the afternoon where work waned, and distractions surmounted. The office took on an undercurrent of restless energy that sent people out of their seats. Around that time, Sandor eyed Sansa’s empty desk and listened for the melodic sound of her voice perhaps chattering with Mildred about knitting or asking Harold for his lemon cake recipe.

Just when he got to wondering where she’d gone, Sansa materialized at his office door with two steaming mugs. She handed him coffee in the mug he liked. The handle was big enough for his large fingers.

“I’m dying.” She slumped against his desk with the dramatic declaration. “This day is going on forever.”

Sansa bounced a little as she pouted and swirled the tea bag in her mug. Sandor glanced at her breasts that were eye level with how she perched next to his chair. Whoever manufactured that sweater deserved a thank-you letter. Merry Christmas to him, she had a stunning body and let him have his looks.

“You get to eat lemon cakes soon. That always cheers you up,” Sandor consoled and decided the email he’d been drafting for the past half-hour didn’t need any concluding remarks. He hit send and turned to Sansa who pursed her lips and blew on her tea. Pretty lips—plush, full, soft—he admired them too.

In May, she switched to tea and came in one Monday morning, tossed her stuff down, and didn’t bother to log in. She’d marched into his office and, when he asked about her weekend, Sansa gushed about tea and all the things she’d learned. She’d gone down a rabbit hole and resurfaced long enough to take him down with her.

Sandor had decided then she could take him anywhere she wanted. He’d watched the unbridled joy in her as she relayed what she learned and talked a mile a minute as if she were on a timeline to tell him everything. He started calling her little bird then. Chirp, chirp, chirp—he didn’t like tea, but he liked her and loved the sound of her voice and her bubbling enthusiasm that was too much to contain. So, he’d listened with a smile he couldn’t erase, not even after the company lost a big account and he had to stay late to assess the damage.

“What do we got today?” Sandor asked and tipped his head to the mug between Sansa’s palms. “Peppermint?” The scent spoke for itself.

“Peppermint,” she confirmed, but eyed his coffee. Sandor followed her gaze there to an island of half-melted marshmallows floating on top of the black coffee’s murky depths.

“Marshmallows make it fancy for the holidays,” she declared and, though he didn’t like sweet things in his coffee, he appreciated the sweet thing at his desk who smiled at him with so much pride in the festive addition to his afternoon pick-me up.

“Fancy,” he repeated and winked at her over the rim of the mug now at his lips.

“Speaking of fancy, where’s your holiday sweater?” she asked and lifted one brow at him in accusation.

Sandor stared down at the plain black sweater he wore, the nicest one he owned and a staple in his wardrobe. “This is my holiday sweater.”

“You wore it for Halloween, though.”

Sansa lifted a hand to his shoulder and caressed the fabric there. She did that on Halloween too, and _ooh’ed_ and _ahh’ed_ over how soft it was. It became his favorite sweater that day. He bought two more in different colors.

“Last I checked, Halloween is a holiday,” he fired back. “I like yours.”

He eyed those reindeer again; an oblong Dancer and Prancer stretching across her beautiful breasts with Donner and Vixen not far behind.

“I’ve noticed,” she laughed. “Your eyes seem very drawn to the reindeer.”

_Damn._ He was caught. Oh well. Worse could happen.

“I’m a man, little bird. What do you want?” he shrugged with a wicked smile and took another sip of coffee.

In June, the flirtation became more brazen with looks that lingered just a little too long. Sometimes Sandor would be on a call and he’d casually lounge in his seat and hold the phone to his ear in one hand while the other rested behind his head. He’d feel the weight of eyes on him and follow the sensation to Sansa’s desk. She’d look away, flustered and blushing and biting down hard on her bottom lip.

She got her shots in too, though; those times she’d be reading something and would lightly graze her collarbone with her fingertips. As her head tilted to the side, sometimes her fingers would mindlessly slip to her decolletage. She’d look over at him and a dreamy smile would creep across her lips. Sandor would smile back and, when their eyes met, neither was in that big of a rush to look away.

“Alright, we have…” Sandor checked his watch. “Forty-five minutes until the party and, by your math, we only have to stay for a half hour.”

She’d told him one of her most prized secrets in July when they bonded over mutual disdain for the corporate Fourth of July picnic. Her secret? The equation for when it was socially acceptable to leave office gatherings—take 25% of the hours left in the workday, and that’s how long you had to stay at the party. He’d playfully pointed out that her math fell apart for the Fourth of July. The company gave them the day off, but strongly encouraged everyone to attend the picnic.

Sandor had showed up because Sansa said she’d be there too. It was the first time he’d seen her outside of work. She arrived in a white summer dress and sun-kissed skin. She’d also won the hotdog eating contest and, at no point in his life, did Sandor ever think he’d be that oddly aroused by a smoke show like Sansa Stark woofing down hotdogs in a pretty white dress. Amazing. They both had stayed at the picnic well after Sansa’s math said they could leave.

The summer was a turning point. They became close friends; close enough that in August he invited her over when her air conditioner broke. In a red t-shirt and cut-off shorts, she’d planted herself in front of a box fan in his living room and chatted with him as if it were entirely casual that she showed up looking like she did—long legs on full display and a swell of ample cleavage he got a preview of. The loose fabric of her shirt had billowed with the fan as she bent over. It’d been just a peak—a black lacy bra and soft skin. 

They’d spent the day drinking rum-spiked lemonade on his back porch, listening to records, eating barbecue for dinner, and talking well after sunset when fireflies flittered in his backyard and Sandor got to wondering if she really hated the heat as much as she said.

He offered her a place to stay for the night and she kindly accepted, but at nine, her landlord called with the good news. The AC was fixed. They’d both frowned at that and stood quietly in his kitchen as the mood deflated in one catastrophic instant like a balloon popping. Party over.

At three, the office holiday party kicked off with little fanfare. It didn’t need it. The antsy and anxious had already stalked the conference room for well on two hours and barreled in at three to load up their plates with food—a million kinds of cookies, just as many bags of chips, four store-bought sides, three glazed hams, two kegs of beer, and a partridge-shaped cheese log in a lettuce tree.

They hid out in his office as long as they could until Mildred wandered in and told them they were late to the party and noticeably missing. The old lady was onto them.

When Sansa and Sandor arrived, the party had spilled from the conference room and into the open bull-pen area where someone had fired up the Christmas music. It was the typical scene. The people who viewed office parties as an open bar hit up the kegs and champagne like Christmas spirit depended on it. The gaggle of older women imbibed too, but mostly traded recipes and pictures of their grandkids. People mingled, laughed, and a few danced.

The folks who liked to talk politics gathered in a corner. There was something funny about seeing two middle-aged dudes arguing with reindeer antler headbands on. The more heated the conversation, the more animated they became, which meant the reindeer bells clattered a frenetic tune. Sansa couldn’t contain her laughter next to him as they found a spot on the perimeter of the party and looked on.

Sandor loaded up on ham and chips to fill the hungry void the sandwich had left behind. Sansa’s cheeks flushed pink as she sipped on white wine. They sat on an empty desk against the wall, shoulder-to-shoulder and in their own little world. Holiday parties weren’t so bad after all, he supposed.

Sansa stilled and pointed to the ceiling and the music seeping through the intercom speakers. “Do you hear this?”

Sandor paused his crunching on a pita chip long enough to discern _Carol of the Bells_ suffusing the party with its ominous tones.

“Yeah, I hear it,” he nodded and dunked another chip into a mystery dip, some savory relative of hummus, perhaps.

“I requested it because it’s your favorite.”

Sansa looked at him like she had been for the past two months. Something had changed, and Sandor didn’t know what. It haunted her in a way. She’d be in the throes of laughter, the momentum of glee carrying her towards hilarity that left tears pearling in her eyes at something he said, but suddenly she’d stop like she had now. The only evidence of her joy would be the reverent smile on her lips, but her eyes told the tale of something different—longing. It blindsided him. He never saw it coming, though he longed for her too.

Sandor laughed because he never knew how to navigate this part. Sooner or later, he’d just have to confess to her how he felt.

“I didn’t know the DJ was taking requests,” he joked.

Sansa set aside the waxed paper wine cup and sat up as if steeling her spine for some impending moment that demanded strength.

“Well, I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now,” she started and wrung her hands together as if she had confessions too. A soft shock of diluted panic ran through Sandor, both pleasurable and painful.

“I’ve been living a double life. It turns out, Sandor…” She paused and her eyes matched his, but she couldn’t keep it up. Her giggles rang like a bell. “I’m the DJ. This is my playlist. This song is on here four more times.”

Relief washed over him. Now wasn’t the time for this. He meant to tell her. He _would_ tell her, but not as Lonny sucked down eggnog and Mildred clapped along to _Carol of the Bells_ ; not as Harold went for a second round of pecan pie and that new guy from payroll was telling the same goddamn story about his trip to Vanuatu.

Sandor glanced at Sansa who’d returned to her wine again and swayed gently to the music. He relished her ebb and flow as she rocked against him.

“What about your favorite? _O’ Holy Night_.”

Sansa bit back a mischievous grin and gazed at him from beneath her lashes. “It’s also on here five times,” she confessed. 

Sandor shook his head with a rasping chuckle. “Is the playlist just everyone’s favorite song five times?”

“No, just ours,” she said, and her voice went faintly breathless at the ‘ours’ bit of it. She fell silent with more shenanigans in the works. “And maybe the entire Mariah Carey Christmas album twice,” she blurted out. 

Sandor hummed with a slow nod as he finished chewing and took a swig of his beer.

“Oh good. If there was any less Mariah Carey than that, I’d be worried about you.”

In September, she didn’t come to work, and Sandor crafted a clever way to see if she had annual leave scheduled. “No leave, just out sick,” Mildred had told him with a pointed stare that said she knew why he was asking.

Sandor ate lunch alone at his desk that day, and then the next. Every time a funny email came through his inbox or someone did something ridiculous, he’d break out in a smile and stare at Sansa’s desk. Muscle memory, he couldn’t help it. On the second day of her absence, dread sat like a brick in his stomach and concern crept in at the corners of his mind and vied for his attention.

He’d texted Sansa that night to make sure she was okay. She was more than okay and inherited some guilt that he’d been so worried. Her sister had scored Mariah Carey tickets and Sansa didn’t have any leave left, so she did what any fan would do—called out sick. Sandor promised not to tell anyone. She assured him she never thought he would. For his discretion, Sansa gave him a Mariah Carey bumper sticker from the concert.

“I can’t wait for you to show the world how much you love Mariah Carey,” she’d joked as she handed it off in the parking garage and eyed the bumper of his ’78 Mustang. Not a chance in hell. Instead, it held a prominent spot on his fridge and so began their playfully heated debates about who was the better diva. Her choice was obvious. Sandor had told her Glen Danzig was his.

Sansa had reluctantly confessed then that Glen Danzig scared her; something about all that leather and those tiny hands, she’d said. Sandor had found that both achingly endearing, but strange until he learned just how low her threshold for scary things was.

In October, as the leaves showed their colors and the air held that distinctive chill in the mornings, Sandor found himself in an unusual and persistent state of fitful sleep. He rarely remembered his dreams, but he dreamed of her and the things he might say played out in vivid detail, enough to touch, to hold, to feel. He’d wake to an empty spot in the bed next to him; nothing to touch or hold and all he felt for her still bottled up inside and maybe that was what kept him up at night.

One day, Sansa greeted him with a weak smile and exhausted eyes. When he stood at her desk, she sipped on coffee and told him she broke her tea streak for that day and that day only. Her hair had dried in natural waves and she wore a bit less makeup than usual. Despite being dead tired like she’d said she was, Sandor couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

“You okay?” he’d asked.

“I didn’t sleep well.”

He’d thought then that maybe what kept him tossing and turning all night kept her up too. “Is everything alright?”

Sansa had stared up at him with her brows drawn together and a heavy sigh escaping her lips.

“I have to tell you something,” she’d whispered, and her face had gone pale and, to think of it even now, Sandor remembered well the way his heart pounded in his chest. 

“I’m listening.”

“I watched that movie _28 Days Later_ because I thought it was the romantic comedy with Sandra Bullock.”

“Little bird, that’s not what that movie is,” he whispered back. It had taken a tremendous, Oscar-worthy effort for Sandor to keep a straight face.

She’d buried her face in her hands and groaned, “I know. It was really scary. I thought maybe the love story just happened later in the movie, but it never happened. I had nightmares.”

Sandor had erupted with laughter at that. He laughed in a way that no one in the office had ever heard. Sansa couldn’t keep it together either. Tears had streamed down her cheeks and the scene they made sent the CEO out of his office to see what the commotion was. They’d waved him off. Nothing to see. No one asked what was so funny. Once more, Sansa and Sandor were left alone in their own world and, when Sandor retreated to his office to take a call, it wasn’t the humor that followed him in.

On the phone, his eyes were repeatedly drawn to her. He’d barely listened to the man yapping on the line. As he watched Sansa slog out her day, Sandor recognized with earth-shattering urgency and blinding clarity that he wanted so much to be the one who got to hold her, who chased away the nightmares, held her hand through the scary parts of movies and the hard parts of life because sometimes those were even scarier.

As George Michael belted out _Last Christmas_ from the speakers, Sansa discreetly checked her watch. They were butting up against the timeline for a socially acceptable exit.

“You getting ready to bail?” Sandor asked and tried to mask his disappointment. She had a plane to catch tomorrow. He did too, but they were heading in opposite directions for Christmas—California for him and Vermont for her.

“No, I was just thinking we should exchange our gifts.”

Sandor swallowed hard, and his palms slicked with sweat at the mere suggestion.

“Good idea,” he agreed with a nod, and they planned to meet in the break room with the vending machines—a place where people wouldn’t look for them and the chance at being interrupted was relatively slim.

Sandor grabbed her gift from his office and waited in the break room with his hands shoved in his pockets. He nervously paced the floor and eyed the uneven edge of the wrapping paper. He’d tried to do that thing where the pattern lined up. It’d taken three tries and the glass of bourbon he’d drank while wrapping it did him no favors.

In November, they took the long way back from the sandwich shop that’d started selling a Thanksgiving sub. They’d made a pact to try it together. Sansa didn’t mind the cold and, by then, neither did Sandor. Bundled up in their coats and scarves, they ambled the streets, but Sansa stopped dead in her tracks in front of a store window that was decked in garland and bows.

A book sat in the window—periwinkle blue with gold-leaf pages and its cover depicting a fairytale scene. Her gloved hands pressed against the glass that fogged up with her tattered breaths. Her Grandma Stark had had that same book and Sansa recalled with tender wistfulness how she flipped through its pages as a child. The last memory of her grandmother was the old woman reading her stories from it. After Sansa’s grandmother died, the book vanished. Sansa told him it had felt like another blow, salt in a deep wound.

She’d peeled herself from the bookstore window with a placid smile but remained a bit quieter than usual when they ate their Thanksgiving subs in the stairwell.

Sansa breezed into the break room with her hands hidden behind her back and all her irresistible effervescence tearing her apart at the seams as she bounded towards him and held out his gift.

“Open yours first!” she demanded and bounced next to him. Her heels clacked against the floor and her hair tumbled about her shoulders. “I can’t wait any longer. Open it! Here I’ll start it.”

With delicate fingers, she plucked open one flap of the package neatly wrapped in gold paper that glittered in the dull fluorescent light. She couldn’t help herself. She did the same thing with his birthday gift. “Open!”

Sansa carefully watched with her clasped hands pressed to her lips as Sandor unwrapped a rectangular box that he set to the table. He lifted the lid and unfolded the tissue paper. Inside were black knitted gloves with a gold S.C. on each cuff. He held them in his palms and swept his thumb over the soft yarn that was like butter to the touch.

Sansa settled against his side and her fingertips grazed one glove and along his thumb too. With that touch, she gazed up at him. 

“I remember you said you lost your gloves. So, I made these. Try them on,” she urged with gentle insistence and backed away so she could watch.

Most gloves fit too tight. Sandor’s fingers were longer and thicker than most men, but he slipped on the gloves she made and marveled at how perfectly they fit his hands. No one had ever made him a gift before.

“Remember that turkey decorating contest I planned?” Sansa asked with another rosy flush emerging on her cheeks and down her neck now.

Sandor nodded with a fond smile. A week before Thanksgiving, Sansa had shown up to work with construction paper and glitter pens and demanded that everyone outline their hands to make a cut-out turkey to decorate. It coincided with the business crush before the holidays, so half the office ignored her request. By then, Sansa could have asked him to conquer lands, sail the open seas, go to the moon, and he’d do it for her. He stayed late to trace his hand against green paper and haphazardly decorated it the best he could, though he hated glitter and was still finding it in his office a month later.

A smile exploded on Sansa’s lips and her blue eyes sparkled. “It was just a ruse to get the size of your hands!”

Equal parts impressed and touched, Sandor nodded and carefully removed each glove and replaced them to the box. “Wow, you orchestrated a whole ruse for me?”

“Well, more like half a ruse since it was just your one hand,” she said through soft laughter and matched his eyes. 

“I love them. Thank you,” he rasped and hoped his nervousness didn’t dampen the sincerity. “You’re up, little bird.” 

With one hand, he slid the box across the table to her. Sansa beamed at him, though she hadn’t even opened it yet. When she did, she tugged lightly to undo the green bow and slowly unwrapped the thick white paper with matching green trees.

Sandor’s hands trembled. He tucked them in his pockets and hoped she might not notice as she lifted the lid off the box. Sansa stood across the table from him with her eyes down turned and Sandor couldn’t discern the look on her face. She stared into the box where the book of fairytales was nestled on a bed of tissue paper.

Her hands shook too, but she didn’t care if he saw. She lifted one of those quivering hands to her mouth and stared at him with tears in her eyes. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Sansa whispered when she pulled her hand away. “How did you know?”

She’d asked him that before; more times than he could probably count. How did he know peppermint tea was her favorite? How did he know what to order her from the Thai place when they wanted something different for lunch? How did he know when she wasn’t feeling well? Or needed a pep talk and to laugh? How did he know when she wanted him to walk her to her car or come with her to watch the storms rolling in?

How did he know?

He knew because it was now December and if he looked back on the year, the scene he saw was simple and the story it told was clear. It answered the question for him when he didn’t have the words to tell her how he knew. He’d spent the year seeing who she was—the moments of generosity, vulnerability, happiness in simplicity, the difficulty, the laughter, the tears. He knew because all this time, month after month, he’d been falling in love with her.

And now she seemed to know it too.

The tears that glistened in her eyes fell down her cheeks as she bit her bottom lip that trembled. She knew the shift in him; when the winds changed and the thing that quieted her, quieted him too and Sandor paid it the veneration it demanded now on a somber voice, deep and sincere. 

“Because I know you. I’ve always known you. I know that you don’t trust certain condiments, that you can inhale hotdogs like no one I’ve ever seen, you melt in the summer, all bets are off when it comes to scary movies, that you like fairytales and lemon cakes.

“I also know that my worst days at work are the ones where you’re not here and I feel like I’ve got no one to talk to or joke with, no one who really gets me. I know that while everyone else hates Mondays, I look forward to them because it means I get to see you again.

“So that leaves me with one question I have. One thing I want to know now. What are you doing New Year’s Eve because I thought you might want to spend it with me?”

When he finished, release came like shedding a weight Sandor had carried through the year. It’d only grown heavier, more difficult, cumbersome, and harrowing with each passing month. It’d stolen sleep, invaded his dreams by night and thoughts by day, and was shredding him from the inside out with a slow burning need to be near her, breathe her in, taste her, touch her.

Sandor expelled a muted sigh and found as he shed one weight, he gained another as he waited for Sansa to say something, anything.

A gasping breath escaped her, and she swiped at the tears barreling down her cheeks, faster than she could keep up with, so she abandoned the cause and let her hands fall to her sides.

“As more than friends?” she asked on a trembling voice and sniffled.

Sandor closed his eyes and whispered, “More than friends.”

He had barely opened his eyes again when Sansa was colliding into him, arms around his neck, and drawing him towards her as she rose to her toes to meet him halfway. Sandor wrapped her up in his arms and held her hard against him. His mouth met hers in a tender kiss, salty from her tears and sweet when his tongue parted her lips. And now the other release came; the tension, the pining, the want, the missing each other and all that rested behind their smiles and looks. It broke upon them as the kiss deepened and they held onto one another.

When the kiss slowed, Sandor cradled the sides of her face with his fingers laced in her hair. His limbs felt numb and slightly limp as Sandor sunk against the edge of the table and Sansa settled between his legs. She ran her fingers through his hair as he rested his forehead against hers and smoothed his palms up her back.

“Yes,” Sansa whispered and nuzzled the tip of her nose against his. “You’re the only person in this whole world I want to spend New Year’s Eve with.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this little fic could bring you some holiday joy! Much love to everyone, have a wonderful holiday, and stay safe out there! 💚❤️


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